


wyoming

by cockcrow



Category: Firewatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath, Ambiguous/Open Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockcrow/pseuds/cockcrow
Summary: You find a job posted in the newspaper.You take it.You go through one hell of a summer.You don't regret it.





	wyoming

**Author's Note:**

> • absolutely succkkkks  
> • like i worked on it, then took a break for months  
> → i just wanted to get rid of it, so yeah  
> • like nothing happens  
> • unbeta'd

You find a job posted in the newspaper.  
You take it.

You go through one hell of a summer.  
You don't regret it.

  


  
It's not that the last summer had left me dissatisfied. It's just that… Well, after I got back to Boulder, Colorado with one hell of a mess to sort through in my mind, I were sort of, just, stuck. What happened that summer was one of the most messiest things ever and I couldn't say anything. I didn't know how. I could summarise the whole story in a few sentences– maybe even words, but… It wouldn't feel right. It wouldn't have the same weight as when I was in the depths of the Wyoming wilderness. The views, the nights, the stars. You had to be there as they say, and I were there. It was hard not being there after everything.

  


When I had returned back to Boulder, I just aimlessly wandered around in hopes of something. Something interesting, something surprising, something that would bring back everything else. When I left the woods, it felt like the entire mess that was cradled in my arms was let go; it was dropped, and now the words are gone. I needed something. I didn't dare go back to Julia and her family. I didn't know what to say, what to do, what to even look for. It seemed that after the whole fiasco in the woods had been abruptly closed, I was left with more questions than answers. It didn't help that I managed to remember to bring the turtle along, but forgot the ring in the station. Okay, it may have been completely my fault, but the fire and the smoke really didn't help with concentrating on packing up. It really didn't. So, I was in Boulder for a bit, until I wasn't. The thing about me accepting the job opportunity at the Shoshone National Park was that it was to get away, and when I came back, that feeling of dread picked up and clung to my clothes. The words clawed at my throat, but I felt like I couldn't tell anyone.

  


So, maybe, I spent some months just out. Exploring some of the world I never really looked at; I was taking detours left and right. It was hard wondering about when exactly did Julia and I fall apart. I'd imagine the part of Alzheimer's disease, and– yeah. It, definitely, is Alzheimer's disease's fault. I visited my mom and dad who live out in the middle of nowhere. I visited the other kinds of national parks. Until, I visited home again.

  


The place was a mess, the stale air thankfully being replaced by the cool winter breeze. I had carefully tread on the floor trying to avoid the photos and knick-knacks; the place was in shambles. It hurt to be in there, but it needed to be done. I sat down at the old typewriter and started going at it. The words flinging out of my fingers as if I was Picasso on a canvas, Bach on the piano. I was a wizard casting spells and curses. The music coming out of the click-click-click of the typewriter. Conductor, artisan, a real Renaissance man. I was the fire: strong; bright; consuming.

  


“I found a turtle just laying there on a rock, and, god, it reminded me of the dog. Do you remember them? Their soft fur, the happy days we spent together feeling bigger than ever, and the beers that we shared. Do you? 'Cause, god, do I miss those days. I miss the days where you drove me nuts and it was perfect.

“So, I just sat there watching the fire in its glory. Not much to do out there, but admire. And, let me tell ya. The sights really are something. I would drink another beer, but I ran out.”

  


The days blurred into an incoherent mess of jumbled words and phrases, and at the end I was so spent and tired that I slept for about a whole day. Next, I hurried over to Julia and handed the papers—almost of a novel's length—and told her to read it. I could see the surprise of her parents when they answered the door, and the sliver of a spark of an argument in their eyes, but I was a man on a mission if anything. I persuaded them to let me in without a fight. They knew I love Jules.

  


I could see her eyes glimmer with some recognition of the kinds of things I did this past summer. Not for the events, but for the kinds of things I would say, do, think about. I could see the way her eyes crinkled into that familiar, drop-dead gorgeous way that left me breathless. I could see how her smile was raised higher on one side as if she was trying to do a smirk, but I could tell she was just happy. I could see the worried furrows between her eyebrows whenever it got suspenseful, and I wanted to protect her against the world.

  


And the conversation went on like this:

“So… what do you think, Jules.”

“… I– I think you should let go.”

  


And, we had split. I guess. It's hard. It's hard being let go and having to let go. It's relieving too, I suppose. But, mostly, it was quiet back then. I went back to Boulder, and a heavy set of shoulders.

  


  
Driving around the state with a busy mind makes a man do a lot of introspecting and whatnot. It also leaves a crap load of time to do some writing not for Julia's eyes. And, you know what, I did do that. I wrote ton of letters—one topic onto another topic—that made such a mismatched conversation that it grounded me. I wrote about the fire again, the quiet nights where I would console my can of beer for company. I wrote a lot of stuff. A whole bunch I don't really want to talk about. I typed up about the wild conspiracy I brew. So, yeah. Writing was a thing.

  


It didn't mean I didn't do other stuff. I brought my equipment: the shit load number of ropes; and, uh, other stuff. Hiking, I did a lot of. The views you see on nature walks are nothing compared to when you really go into the forests. Everything was real: the rough bark around the tree almost felt like it could crumble away if you tried hard enough; the hourglass figure of the trunk that stood proud and tall; and the coffee warm hues of the trunk juxtaposing against the smooth, jade leaves that fell off. It was refreshing, and it kept me writing.

  
So… here I am, driving to the woods again. It's summer again; I accepted the position, and I can remember the vivid golden hues of the sun setting, the animals I would catch along the trails, and the warm ass wind tickling against my arms and legs. It was so close I could almost taste it.

  


I quickly parked the car, and made my way into the familiar woods, even if it seemed different—it had the same feelings.

Soon, the stars with their enigmatic twinkling and the soft, summer-soaked chirping of the cicadas swept the forest. I closed my eyes and felt the old rusty memories seep through my skin.

There's stuff I could tell you, but a guy's gotta have his secrets.

  


  
So, when I spot my old fire-watching tower, I get goosebumps or whatever. It just itches, and tingles like something's wrong, odd, off. Panic resides inside me like a familiar friend sleeping on the couch. My legs stomp up the stairs.

And when I get to the top: there's nothing.

  


  
But I can't shake off this bad omen inside. It's like the crawling feeling back last summer. Back when we thought we were in some government experiement, back when we spent quiet nights talking about nature, back when we were avoiding something bigger.

It's like nothing changed at all.

  


  
So when I see the walkie-talkie laying on the table, I don't dive for it, but it's the first thing I head for.

 

  


  
“Hello?”


End file.
